Think Again
by T'Liana
Summary: Sherlock made a name for himself deducing people, and yet, even the great Sherlock Holmes can get it wrong. This is the one time that he did it wrong. Minor Johnlock


So Sandy Higgins is based on a character I've written for another story, one I intend to have legitimately published in a few years. In the story Sandy doesn't go to England, but she spends the whole story being misjudged by others based on her appearance and I thought she'd be the perfect candidate to confuse our Master of Deduction.

Minor Johnlock.

o.O.o

 **Think Again**

The streets of London were filled with hustle and bustle and people going about their regular, dull business. Sherlock spared no glance to the thousand people that passed the outdoor café and instead opted to think about the numerous delicious things he would do to John when they finished their date and got back to their flat.

He checked his watch. John would finish work in two minutes. Factoring in regular afternoon traffic, it should take him nineteen minutes and thirty seconds to get to where Sherlock waited for him.

 _Café de Luna_. A nice little spot that made exquisite tea and—though you didn't hear this from Sherlock—the best sandwiches. He drummed his fingers on the table and shook his head as the waitress again approached him.

"No thank you, I'm not ready to order," he said.

"It's been thirty minutes," she said. "If you need the company, I clock off in two minutes and we could get a drink if you like."

"I'm sure your boyfriend wouldn't approve," Sherlock drawled. "If you're so desperate for attention, try the man over there with his girlfriend. He's been eyeing you off for ten minutes and his girlfriend hasn't stopped talking long enough to notice."

"I-" the waitress spluttered. She spun on her heel and stormed off, muttering about rude men and their goddamn cheekbones.

A flash of colour caught his eye. No, it wasn't the colour per se, but the pattern. A checked pattern that one rarely saw in London. His hand stilled on the table and his eyes flicked to the owner of the unusual pattern.

She was young. School age. Her features distinctly European, but a slight tan graced her skin. Her blonde hair was tied in a neat ponytail, but the short bits frizzed wildly. The checked pattern belonged to the blue and red flannelette top she wore, one size too big. Her black _The Walking Dead_ t-shirt was also a size too big, and the material hung off her loosely. Her jeans were also loosely-fitted, and her shoes of a male design and not a style commonly seen in London. Black skate shoes with white stripes. A brown leather satchel was slung over her shoulder and she held it with one hand while the other swung loosely by her side.

Interesting.

She stood on the path near his table and stared at him, clearly having heard the conversation. After a moment of locked eyes, Sherlock sighed and jerked his head. She pointed to herself, a little confused, and slowly came over.

"I haven't got all day," he said. "What do you want?"

"Oh, I um, I just heard what happened and, um, I just wondered… How did you know she has a boyfriend?"

"Her perfume." Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "She's wearing expensive make-up and her personal grooming is impeccable, but she's wearing boy's perfume. Indicative of a boyfriend, don't you think?"

"That's really cool. How do you do that?"

"Sit down." He gestured to the empty seat across from him and she sat. "I call it the Science of Deduction. I observe and make deductions about anything and everything."

"People?"

"People. I could do you, for example."

"Oh." She blinked. "Okay, shoot."

"Did you enjoy your visit to Australia?"

"My visit to… Australia?" She frowned uncertainly. "What do you mean?" Oh, this was fun. All of these London clones walking past, and then someone _interesting_ happened by.

"The flannelette shirt is an Australian symbol and indicates that you have recently spent time there. The material is cheap, indicating that while you were there, you spent most of your time in the cities. I would say Sydney, but your tan indicates otherwise, so I say Brisbane. Your tan is too heavy for a week-long stay, so I would suggest at least six months. You arrived in summer, and left during winter, the temperatures of which are similar to our summer, so you've acclimatised quite well since coming back."

"You're being presumptuous." But she didn't stand up. Instead, her eyes glimmered.

"Your enunciation is also indicative of a long stay, as you have a small inflection of an Australian accent. And as for the _reason_ for your visit. Your age indicates a school exchange trip, but perhaps, judging by your t-shirt, your parents have separated, and one has moved to Australia."

"How did you get that from my t-shirt?" She looked intrigued now.

" _The Walking Dead_. A show you like, and your family knows it. The shirt was a present from your brother, who's still in Australia. Due to the shirt being a size too big, I would say that you and he are estranged—you haven't spent much time together recently and he wasn't sure of your shirt size. How am I doing?"

"It's all very interesting."

Oh, he was just getting started.

"Your style of dress indicates that your family is middle-glass. Those are boys' shoes and well-worn and I suspect they had a previous owner. Now the satchel is tricky. It's expensive but given the rest of your ensemble I can say that it was a gift."

"And why's that?"

"Leather is costly. I would say a gift from whichever parent lives in London to bribe you into staying here. Mother? Mother. A mother is more likely to keep the daughter, while the father keeps the son."

They both looked up at the waitress approached, and this time she looked at the girl instead of Sherlock. The girl waved her away and Sherlock felt a stab of respect.

"Judging by your stooped posture, you're uncomfortable in crowds," he said. "At school, you sit near the back of class and you have few friends."

"Oh?"

"You wear a _Walking Dead_ shirt." He pointed to it. "It's fallen out of favour during the last few seasons and only die-hard fans continue to buy merchandise. The shirt is new, so you still watch it, and only a certain audience can stomach repeated zombie shows."

"That's a bit of stereotyping, don't you think?"

"Am I right, though?"

"Well, I only have two friends but-"

"Excellent. You're a pop culture fanatic, and a bit of a gamer judging by the way your hands curve, but you haven't gamed recently. Your skin would be paler if you had. The fingers on your left hand are calloused, so you are left-handed and spend a lot of time using a pen or pencil. I would say artist, but no… You're in high school, and you're a good student, so you spend a lot of time taking notes. The bags under your eyes are deep, indicative of many long nights spent studying and/or looking at a computer screen."

"Really?" She raised her eyebrow at that. He smirked.

"You're cynical. Not religious. That's a practiced eyebrow raise, signalling that you're used to challenging people. Are you going to challenge me?"

"Depends on what else you find." The first fission of doubt hit him. "So… what else Mister Science of Deduction?"

"Hm, you're very casual with authority figures, so I would say you're a teacher's pet. You get along better with adults than you do with people your own age."

"Do I do any sports?" She seemed to be challenging him. He examined her, but it was difficult with the oversized clothes.

"Your shoulders are broader and disproportionate to the rest of your body, so I would say swimming. Correct?"

"I used to."

"Damn."

"Do you have any more deductions for me?" She chuckled. "You seem to read me like an open book."

"You're unemployed and you're picky with jobs. You don't want a minimum-wage fast-food job, no, you're too smart for that. You want something that challenges you."

"Oh, I'm smart, am I?"

"Of course."

"Sherlock, who's this?"

They both looked up and Sherlock stood and smiled.

"John, I hadn't realised it had been nineteen minutes. Please, pull up a chair." The short man did as Sherlock said, and glanced at the girl.

"I'll ask again, who's this?"

"Oh, I don't know her name. I've been deducing her for the past nineteen minutes."

"Sandy Higgins, please to meet you." She held her hand out and John shook it.

"John Watson, and this here is Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh good, now I know his name. He didn't introduce himself." The girl—now Sandy—smiled at Sherlock. "Now go on. You were talking about how I'm smart."

"He was?" John stared at Sherlock and the tall man wasn't sure how to react. John had never looked at him like that before, not even when Sherlock had first confessed his love.

"He was." Sandy rested her chin on her hands. "So far I've been abroad in Australia for six months, my parents are separated, my brother and I are estranged, I'm a nerd with few friends and I swim."

"How much of it did he get right?" John rolled his eyes and Sherlock smirked. All of it, obviously.

"Eh, not much."

"WHAT!?"

All heads turned at Sherlock's cry and John had the grace to look embarrassed. Sherlock stared at the girl sitting across from him, unable to believe her words. There was no way he'd gotten anything wrong.

"You're right, I am a nerd and I like to study, but you've made two very big assumptions, and you aren't the first to do that." She smiled. Sherlock leant forward in his seat. "Think again. First, you assumed that I'm British. Second, you assumed that I was in high school."

"Aren't you British?" John asked. "You sound British."

"I'm Australian."

"Of _course_ ," Sherlock hissed.

"I have an English-Australian accent. I've been asked many times where I come from. Australians seem to think that anyone who isn't bogan must be somewhere from Europe."

"And your age?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm not in high school, I'm in university."

"I didn't even _think_ of university. You're so _young_."

"Nineteen. I skipped a grade."

Seeing someone new at the table, the waitress approached again, and this time John ordered tea. Sandy called her over and asked for a coffee.

"Never could stand tea," she said.

"Definitely not British," John said.

"What else did I get wrong?" Sherlock asked. "I have to know."

"Well I've lived in Australia my whole life, and I'm an avid gamer, so I haven't not gamed in a while. My parents are happily married, and the shirt was given to me by my sister's husband."

" _Brother-in-law_ ," Sherlock hissed.

"It was on sale and this was the smallest size. I don't even like _The Walking Dead_ , but I like him." She smiled as the waitress brought her coffee. "Thank you. So, this is my first trip to England. I'm actually researching for a book I'm writing."

"A _writer_." Sherlock stared at her dumbfounded. "You're a writer."

"Yeah. I'm studying writing at university. And I do have a job. Data entry. Nothing glamorous, but it paid for me to come here. And this satchel, by the way." She patted the leather item. "Yeah, I got this myself."

"I…" Sherlock trailed off. John leant towards her.

"He's never mis-deduced someone," he whispered.

"It gets better," she whispered back. She straightened. "I did swim when I was a kid, but I haven't for ages. I've done martial arts for ten years."

" _Martial arts_ ," Sherlock moaned.

"I'm surprised you didn't see the bruises on my knuckles." She held her hands out and the second knuckle on both hands was darker than the rest. Sherlock wanted to hide in his coat like a turtle.

"How could I have got this so wrong? What would Mycroft say?"

"His brother," John told Sandy. "Sherlock, I'm sure Mycroft would have had the same problems. This is a very misleading young woman."

"Hey, I don't intend to be. I didn't tell you to think that I was British." She laughed. "It was kinda funny though. And even if you got it wrong, it was still incredible to watch."

"It was?" Sherlock stared at her.

"Yeah, the way you pulled answers from the smallest things. Like my family's money status by my shoes, and my gaming by my hands. It was really interesting."

"You must never speak of this to _anyone_ ," Sherlock said. "My reputation would never recover."

"Getting beaten by a nineteen-year-old girl," John joked. Their tea arrived, and he poured it.

"So how long have you two been together?" Sandy asked. John spat a mouthful of tea.

"How do you-?"

"Please, I'm a writer. I observe people too. And I have an incredible gaydar."

"Gaydar?" Sherlock asked.

"Gay radar," John supplied.

"Fascinating." Sherlock stared at her with fresh eyes. "What's your story about?"

"Oh, the usual. Aliens among us and such."

"Tell us about it."

Sandy told them about her story, and both John and Sherlock listened with rapt attention. Sherlock didn't even mind that she'd hijacked their date, because she was such an enigma. Nearly all his deductions had been wrong and the last time that had happened was Irene Adler.

And here was this stranger making him make a fool of himself.

As she and John discussed some dull topic, Sherlock found that his eyes constantly wandered to her satchel, tucked between her feet.

"Did you get that from Australia?" he asked. She and John halted their conversation and looked at him.

"Yeah. Two-hundred bucks, but so worth it."

"Hm. I might get one for myself. It's rather dashing."

Beside him, John couldn't believe what he'd just heard.

"Two years I've known you, and you've never wanted a bag. 'Too cumbersome' or something."

"The leather satchel is dashing."

"Whatever."

Now that he knew more about her, he was able to see the signs. Though her shoulders stooped forward, from spending time at a computer, her posture was generally straight and indicated a background in form-based sports. Hence, martial arts.

And it wasn't shyness that led to few friends, like he'd first thought. It was selectiveness. Intelligent people tended to be more selective with who they spent time with—his eyes flicked to John—because they wanted specific influences.

She was smarter than her ensemble let on. That showed that she was comfortable with her intelligence and didn't shove it into the face of others. A quiet achiever. When she looked at things, she didn't see them the same way as everyone else. She didn't see objects as _things_. She saw them as opportunities.

The writer's brain had always been a mystery to Sherlock but spending time with John had allowed him to understand it a little more.

"So, what do you guys do?" Sandy asked.

"Oh, well I'm a doctor," John said, "but I help out Sherlock with his work a lot. He's a consulting detective."

"Never heard of that. What is it?"

"When the police are having trouble with their job, they come to me and I do it for them," Sherlock said. He swirled his second cup of tea and took a sip.

"Ah, so that explains the whole deduction thing." Sandy nodded. "Being a detective is the perfect line of work for a brain like yours."

Sherlock wasn't sure if her compliment should send a wave of warmth through him, but it did. She wasn't a rabid fan, but a stranger who was genuinely impressed by his abilities. The last person who'd addressed him like that had been John. He glanced at his lover. His John.

They talked until late afternoon when the café closed, and they were forced to leave. It was at this point that Sandy said she had been looking for the British Museum, and Sherlock generously offered to show her. They caught a taxi and made it to the museum twenty minutes before it closed.

"Which exhibit do you wish to see?" John asked.

"The Egyptian and Celtic ones."

Her expression as they passed every exhibit was infectious, and soon Sherlock found himself smiling despite himself. He knew John noticed and would probably tease him for it, but Sherlock knew the exact spot on his neck to kiss that would silence him.

Then the museum closed, and they were forced to leave again.

"Well, gents, it's been fun," she said on the steps outside. "Seriously, thank you for a fun afternoon."

"Fun? With Sherlock? No one'll believe you," John laughed good-naturedly. "You heading back to wherever you're staying?"

"Yeah. And where's that, Sherlock?" She winked at him and he bristled.

"You're not staying at a hotel, but on a university campus."

"Very good." She held her hand out and both John and Sherlock shook it. "I hope you two are good to each other. And good luck with your cases!"

"Enjoy the rest of your stay in London," John said. "I'll keep an eye out for your book."

"Thanks."

"As will I." They stared at Sherlock. "Thank you for scintillating conversation."

"Right back at you. Bye!"

She turned and skipped down the stairs. Sherlock stared at her as she called a taxi and climbed inside. He and John got their own taxi and were silent on the trip back to 221b Baker Street. They went upstairs, and Sherlock hung his coat on the back of the door.

"Are you okay?" John asked. He took Sherlock's hand.

"I'm fine, love."

"Are you sure?"

"I just met a most remarkable human. A normal person who defied sensible deduction." He shook his head. "I am in awe, John."

They were on a case in Ireland for the next couple weeks and by the time they got home, Sherlock knew Sandy had gone back to Australia. A pity. He would have liked to see her again.

A month after, Sherlock hunched in his armchair, deep in thought.

"Sherlock, you won't believe this."

"What?" His eyes flicked open and he joined John at the computer. The screen displayed the extensive list of subscribers to John's blog. The newest subscriber made Sherlock smile.

 _Sandy Higgins_.

"She was really nice," John said. "Should I be jealous?"

"You know my heart belongs to you." Sherlock kissed John's neck in the spot that made him fall silent. "Come on, let's go to bed."

"Okay."

Over a thousand miles away, Sandy scrolled through the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and smiled.


End file.
